


If Hope...

by bionic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-15
Updated: 2010-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:17:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionic/pseuds/bionic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst, in a motel room. Takes place sometime during season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Hope...

Dean’s foot on the gas never lets up until the full moon has disappeared into a brightening sky and his eyes are drooping shut. Things had started going south after the werewolf slashed open Sam’s side and Dean had a bitch of a time trying to stitch him back together again.

  
It isn’t like this has never happened before. In fact, it's probably the tenth or twentieth time, but that doesn’t mean it was any easier than the first, when Dean had to sew Sam up like he was a gutted fish and pray that he’d gotten the wound clean enough, poured enough disinfectant so they didn’t have to rush Sam to the hospital because Dean had fucked up.

  
“Sonofabitch,” Sam grits out, clutching his right side. Dean grips the wheel harder and shakes his head once, pissed. At himself, mostly, and then some at the werewolf. Maybe a little at Sam for thinking just because he was big, he could be the immovable object against an eight-foot tall snarling, hairy beast.

  
“Relax,” Dean barks, because he knows if they don’t find a motel soon and clean out Sam’s wounds, change the bandaging on top, his body might start running a fever. The clumsily patched up flesh paired with the nasty fall Sam had taken, probably spraining an ankle on the landing, was not like the one time Sam almost got his heart ripped out or choked to death with wire, because this is something Dean can control, something he can fix and make better. Dressing and stitching, those are things Dean’s hands know how to do.

  
It doesn’t help that Dean could also have prevented it. If he hadn’t gone back to get more bullets, though, Sam could be dead right now instead of bleeding out onto his leather seats. Dean looks over and catches Sam scrunching his face up in pain. The wounds are deep, but nothing that Dean hasn’t seen before. More than anything else, he rationalizes, the fatigue from sleeping in the Impala and running for miles is probably amplifying the pain a thousand times worse, and “Sam,” Dean says, “Sam, come on. Suck it up. Almost there.”

  
They check into the first dump they can find, and Dean makes Sam sit on one of the lumpy twin beds while he hauls their bags inside. The air conditioning unit in the wall works almost too well, the place is freezing. Its low hum fills the silence as Dean dumps out the sutures and needle and gauze from their bags. The bottle of already mixed peroxide and water is halfway empty, but it should be more than enough to tide them over until Dean can make a run to the nearest convenience store. If Sam’s body doesn’t start healing itself by then, Dean is going to have to bribe a doctor, and he hates doing that.

  
“You’re a mess,” Dean says, mostly just to break the silence. Sam sits completely still on the bed and breathes deep and even, his eyes closed. Dean kind of wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and yell, “Wake up Sammy, don’t you dare pass out on me now!” But it’s just a gut reaction, stupid and unnecessary, so Dean pushes it down and focuses on taking care of his little brother and making sure he doesn’t get an infection.

* * *

  
It’s the coldest fucking motel they’ve ever stayed in, and Dean can’t figure out how to turn the air conditioning down, not even one degree. The knob just seems to turn and turn and turn, and nothing happens. Sam shivers under his pile of blankets and Dean looks at him briefly before grabbing the one extra sweatshirt he’s packed and putting it on. He huddles next to Sam and their shoulders brush together in the dim light of the single working lamp next to Sam’s bed.

  
Sam scratches his chin on the blankets gathered around his shoulders, and Dean remembers their weeks worth of stubble and suddenly his face feels heavier just thinking about it. He hasn’t shaved in so long, he can’t even remember when he last did. Shaving is a luxury that the last few weeks haven’t really allowed them, what with a big bad after Sam and demons every way they turn. Sam seems to be thinking the same and grimaces as he raises a shoulder to itch his jaw, and Dean can’t help but smile a little when he sees him, small and scruffy under the blankets, twitching like a pup. Sam starts laughing loud and sharp, surprising him, but Dean just raises his eyebrows and grins.

  
“You need a shave,” Dean says and moves to get up, but Sam kicks his leg and shakes his head no.

  
“You mean _you_ need a shave,” Sam mumbles. Dean waits for the smile that he knows Sam will give, the smile that means _yes_ and _so do it already_.

  
Motels aren’t generally known for their bathrooms, and this one is no exception. The tiles are slightly brown and the low ceiling above the tub is water stained, and Dean guesses there’s probably years worth of mold in this place, judging by, well, everything. He tries not to think about it, because he’s definitely seen worse holes to crawl in, and a few days of breathing mold won’t hurt that much. Sam needs his rest, and Dean can do with a couple blissful days of sleep himself. At least the sheets looked clean.

  
Sam hobbles in and by this point Dean’s beginning to think he’s putting on a show. Then Sam leans into him as he’s turning on the warm water, his jean-clad hip digging into Dean’s own. Dean braces against the sink as Sam goes limp against him with one hand holding him up on the plywood counter and the other curled loosely around the hem of Dean’s shirt.

  
He clears his throat and leans his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can stand up straight.”

  
Dean looks at him through the mirror and sighs. He says, “Are your fingers broken? ‘Cause I am so not shaving your ugly face for you,” which, Dean considers, okay, he could shave Sam’s face but it’d be tricky at best and horrendously painful at worst. He is not letting Sam bitch at him if he cuts him, either.

  
Sam just curls his fingers tighter in Dean’s shirt, knuckles brushing against his stomach through the cotton, and sways briefly into his body. Sam’s completely drugged off of his mind from the painkillers. He must be, because Dean has never seen him so touchy-feely, at least not since they were kids. It’d be almost nice if it weren’t so awkward, but that doesn’t change the fact that when Dean turns his head he can smell Sam’s sweaty hair, the debris of soil and twigs and forest-pine mixed with it, and it’d be almost nice and intimate if they weren’t so completely brothers.

  
“If I cut you…” Dean begins, already feeling himself giving into Sam’s mushy, pliable state.

  
Sam smiles weakly and pushes off from Dean to get the razor and gel from their bags. “Yeah yeah, I won’t bitch.” Dean grins and thinks, _you say that now…_.

  
Dean watches as his brother shuffles across the room with his eyes half closed. He will be glad if Sam doesn’t trip on the way back and slice something important open.

  
Dean fishes the razor out of his hands as soon as he’s within reach. Sam grunts and squirts out some blue gel and starts rubbing it against his face, along his jaw, as Dean watches, briefly transfixed by the white foam squished between Sam’s fingers. Sam turns to him when he’s done and his grin is broad and covered in foam, and though Dean hates to admit it, there are times when Sam is undeniably childish and Dean has these strong, unexplainable urges to pinch his cheeks.

  
Sam stands facing him and waits to be shaved, his back loose and his shoulders hunched, and his smile settles to a small tilt of his lips. Dean rinses the razor and focuses on Sam’s jaw line, his cheek, the thin and sensitive skin of his neck. Anywhere but Sam’s eyes, which Dean can feel boring into his face. It’s the most normal thing they’ve done in a while, and maybe that’s what's freaking Dean out. He wishes Sam would stop staring at him as strip after strip of smooth flesh is revealed, though it takes several rounds before Dean gets the real close shave he wants. Minutes tick by slowly, but finally it’s done, and the sink is littered with clumps of short hair, the razor edge dulled almost to a useless state.

  
Dean looks around for a towel and realizes there isn’t one. Before he can go and retrieve a t-shirt from their bags to clean up with, Sam’s lifting up his own shirt and wiping his face with it. Dean tries not to notice the crude sutures in Sam’s side, or the faint bruising on his ribs, or the slightly stained gauze Dean pressed against his wound mere hours ago. Mostly, he notices the way Sam’s waist tapers off like he’s lost some weight, though he’s still undeniably fit and Dean, well. He realizes abruptly that he shouldn’t be noticing these things.

  
“Thanks,” Sam says after he’s put his shirt down and there’s a big smear of shaving gel along the bottom, which will crust around the edges when it dries. Dean pats his cheek and says, “You’re lucky my hand was steady,” and Sam’s smile is soft at the corners, his eyes a bit blurry. He looks like he might fall asleep standing up, so Dean guides him to the bed and pushes him under the blankets, his own blanket from his twin bed long ago smothered under Sam’s and twisted together. Sam grabs at his hand when he moves to walk away, and if Dean hadn’t looked back at him or stopped or even paused for the briefest moment, he still could’ve felt Sam’s eyes on his back, the sudden weight of his presence so close, urging him to stay.

  
Like a gravitational pull, Sam doesn’t have to say a word and Dean just folds himself down against his side, barely able to squeeze onto the small mattress. His back is cold until Sam wrestles the edge of the blankets free from under Dean’s body and wraps it around his shoulders.

  
It’s awkward at first and Dean feels thirteen again, all sharp angles and elbows. Sam scoots close until his chest curves along Dean’s back, his knees loosely fitting into the cradle of the back of Dean’s own, and there are reasons why, at that particular moment, flitting through Dean’s mind, why this is not a good idea.

  
But it’s cold and Sam is the closest thing to a heater, and he’s forgotten long ago that he intended to shave as well, that no one bothered to salt the door and window, that the minutes on his clock are ticking away with each day, or that Sam was nearly killed last night.

  
And somehow, because Sam hums when he’s tired just as he’s about to drift off into sleep, and Dean knows this, (why does he know this? He can almost feel the vibration against the back of his neck) somehow, as his brother curls around him, he finds the necessary breath he’s been holding, releases it with one long, fine tremor, and goes out like a light.

  
* * *

  
Technically, Dean’s never woken up in the same bed as Sam before, unless you count their far from normal childhood.

  
They sleep through the night, and when he does wake up the next day in bed with Sam, and they’re both clothed, he breathes a huge sigh of relief and doesn’t dare move until Sam does first. Lately, Sam has a sort of biological clock that wakes him up never later than 8 a.m. to bury his nose in a book or flip open his laptop, so Dean doesn’t have to wait long as he stares at the brightening sky through the dusty window.

  
Sam stirs and his long limbs brush against Dean’s as he moves to stretch. Dean can hear the pops of his spine as Sam arches, and then the harsh gasp of pain as the stitches in his side are pulled. Dean sits up immediately and his hand shoots to Sam’s side with one on his chest, stilling him.

  
“Take it easy.” Dean says, and his face wants to heat up as he realizes that he’s never been in the same bed with Sam since they were little and he’s certainly never touched Sam while they were in the same bed.

  
Sam seems too concerned with the pain to notice any sign of awkwardness on Dean’s part. He’s flinching as he slowly tries to sit up against the headboard. Dean helps him scoot back, feeling guilty once again for letting Sam get hurt. He is the one with an expiring clock, after all. He should be the one who’s stalling the monsters and taking inordinate measures to make sure his life is at risk, and not Sam’s.

  
“Why?” Sam asks miserably and pouts a little, his head falling back against the wall.

  
Dean winces and ducks his head. But Sam’s pouting, which he rarely does and only when he’s feeling a bit like a dork, so Dean knows he must not be in that much pain. “You’re so pitiful,” he says after Sam has situated himself comfortably as possible, but he says it gently, and gets a small smile from Sam in return.

  
“Shut up and get me the painkillers,” Sam grouses. “Please.”

  
Dean gets him the painkillers and a paper cup of water from the sink, then they each take showers in the abysmally small tub. When Sam walks out of the bathroom, Dean snatches his wrist and sits him down to check his stitches. He wipes Sam’s side down with some more peroxide water, before his stomach starts grumbling and they remember to eat. They walk down the road to a small burger joint and end up having to wait an hour in the cool morning air for it to open. Dean curses the lack of twenty-four hour diner service, and refuses to drive around the small town, claiming to be too tired. He’s actually feeling overprotective and will not be able to deal with more than maybe one or two other people looking at them that morning, much less talking to them, and still remain civilized.

  
So they sit outside on the curb and talk. It’s still cool enough to be pleasant, the sun not yet so bright to break a sweat, and early enough that no one else is out, no cars driving by. Dean can even relax outside, in plain sight, for once, without having to worry about anything like getting recognized from the evening news or the most wanted list. It’s been a while.

  
They get their burgers eventually and stuff their faces. Sam wolfs down fries too, the whole extra large portion of them, and it’s a good sign that he’s feeling much better. Dean smiles at him from across the chipped wooden tabletop and doesn’t worry about the urge to lean over and kiss him, kiss his brother on the mouth. He doesn’t worry about it because these urges crop up all the time, at the strangest moments when he least expects them to, and it’s nothing new. He chalks it up to brotherly affection, and tries his best not to dwell on kissing Sam. He’s done a good job of it so far.

  
Because he hasn’t kissed him yet, he isn’t crazy.

  
Sam is being a total nerd talking about the different qualities of grease and cholesterol and the possible invention of trans fat to scare consumers into buying certain products, and Dean can’t help the loose laughter that bubbles up in him as they walk back to the motel. It takes only a few minutes, and Dean’s kind of disappointed when they reach their room. He’ll probably have fond memories of that burger joint for a while, it was a pleasantly easy morning, and the weather is fantastic. Dean hasn’t felt a normal like this in weeks, though Sam looked at him all through breakfast like there’s some big secret he isn’t ready yet to reveal.

  
Dean soon finds out what Sam wants to say.

  
Shortly after the door closes behind him, Sam goes quiet and suddenly Dean can feel the atmosphere shift as Sam slants him a look, the corners of his mouth pulled down into a thoughtful frown.

  
“What?” Dean asks.

  
“I keep thinking about what’s going to happen,” Sam mumbles eventually, after he’s sat himself down on the unmade bed. His face becomes unreadable in the crappy light when he tilts his head down, but Dean can tell by his voice alone that the conversation is about to take a turn into very serious territory.

  
“I know,” Dean says, because he does. He knows Sam worries and fights frantically to find any scrap of evidence that says Dean can be saved, but every effort has been fruitless. “I know, there’s nothing we can do.” He’s going to die when his time comes. Sam is going to have to move on without him. Oddly, he’s been bombarded with the thought so many times now, roughly every minute of every day that he’s almost at peace with it. What does a struggling dog chained up do after it’s exhausted all efforts for freedom? Lie down and wait.

  
And he was having such a great morning, too.

  
“More than that,” Sam says. He looks up at Dean with trusting eyes, like anything Dean says he’ll believe, like he’s twelve again. “I keep thinking about you dying, the very moment of it. How I’m gonna hold you. What I should say to you as the last words you hear….” Sam glances down at his hands then, breaking the tense look between them.

  
Dean swallows, and it almost comes like a punch to the gut. His head is clear and the one thought absolutely shining in its certainty is that Sam has finally accepted it.

  
Sam has given up his search for answers to the impossible.

  
It hurts more than he cares to admit, but at the same time, a huge weight feels like it’s lifted from his chest. His stomach nearly feels hollow, despite the large amount of food they just ingested, but his head is incredibly light. He wants that initial rush of anger and betrayal, but really, all he can register is relief.

  
“You’ll know when the time comes,” Dean says after a while. His voice sounds very small and low, even to his ears. Sam’s gaze has fixed on his face again, and his eyes are dark and full of shadows. Dean wishes he could chase them away for him, or bring the sunlight spilling into the room. Sometimes he wishes he could wipe himself from Sam’s memory, so Sam could be free of this and never have to remember Dean caught and struggling in this losing battle for his life.

  
But Sam surprises him with the way he can always seem to read Dean’s thoughts by his face alone. He drags Dean down to sit on the bed with him, and moves to fold himself behind Dean’s back. He runs his fingers between Dean’s shoulder blades, feather light.

  
“I’ll be there.” Sam’s breath is warm against Dean’s neck. “I won’t let go.”

  
Dean reaches back for him and threads his fingers through his hair, and Sam follows the tug as he tilts his head to rest his cheek against Dean’s shoulder. Dean rubs his still bearded jaw along Sam’s hair and huffs quietly, blowing a few strands into disarray. “You need a haircut.”

  
Sam turns his head and snorts, loud and obnoxious right into Dean’s ear. He pulls at Dean’s facial hair and has a devastating smile on. “Yeah, and you _still_ need to shave.”

  
And Dean pretty much can’t not think about kissing Sam anymore, not when he’ll lose him soon and he won’t ever get a chance to worry again about the weird urges he has to touch him, to kiss him, when he might not ever be able to tell him everything he couldn’t say. All that he was grateful for, and all the stuff that Sam always seems to want to talk about.

  
He leans in to close the few inches separating their faces, and to his utter surprise, Sam just closes his eyes and waits for it and lets it happen. His lips are chapped, but Sam’s are smooth and warm and he should be self-conscious about that, but he’s not. He’s not even worried that they’re brothers anymore. When Sam opens his mouth and coaxes Dean’s tongue into his own, warm and wet and slick, Dean is especially grateful that Sam allows him this. Because if Dean is going to leave, at least Sam will have this to remember him by.

  
And now? Now, he can safely say that he’s gone crazy. But deep down he always knew that somehow, Sam’s kisses would be worth the price. Everything else about him is worth Dean’s very own life.

  
It makes sense that kissing Sam is like comforting a part of his soul, which knows he’s doing the right thing no matter how scared he’ll become. Without all of Dean’s bravado, when he feels the wetness of Sam’s tears, he’ll crumble like a house of cards.

  
But always in the safety of Sam’s arms.


End file.
